


In the Shadows (of my wings)

by SailorSol, wildforce71



Series: Powers 'Verse [7]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Savoy, Sensory Deprivation, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 06:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5656891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorSol/pseuds/SailorSol, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildforce71/pseuds/wildforce71
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Savoy was bad enough as it was, but things could always get worse. The Duke wants answers, and Aramis is now his prisoner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Shadows (of my wings)

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when Sol says "what if Aramis got taken captive at Savoy instead of left for dead?" 8.5k words later.....
> 
> The rape stuff is non-graphic, and there is some non-graphic violence and torture as well. Be warned.

Aramis is only vaguely aware of most of the journey to Savoy. He was concussed and half frozen when Savoy’s soldiers found him, and they took only enough care to make sure he didn’t die as they travelled.

At the palace, he finds himself flung at the Duke’s feet. It takes him a moment before he can haul himself to his knees.

The Duchess is standing behind the Duke. Aramis is not hopeful of help from that corner. From all reports she has naturalised since her wedding.

The Duke talks for a while. Aramis mostly ignores it. Eventually someone kicks him and he starts paying attention again.

“Did you really think it would work?”

“We are Musketeers on a peaceful training mission,” Aramis says blankly.

Someone kicks him again.

Victor smirks. “Where is Cluzet?”

“Who?” he says, still blank.

Another kick. This time he can’t make it back to his knees.

“Take him below,” the Duke orders. “Find out what he knows.”

The guards drag him down to a cell. Someone comes to sloppily clean his head wound and sink a couple of stitches into it, someone else gives him a waterskin and leaves him alone.

The cell is dark and cold. Aramis finds himself a corner and huddles into it, pulling his shirt around himself as best he can to insulate himself from the walls.

He rations out the water, but the skin’s been dry for a long time before anyone comes near him again. The light when the door opens blinds him, and before he can adjust someone has punched him in the stomach. Breathless and hunched over, he can’t fight back as they chain his hands together and drag him out into a larger room. The air here is hot, fueled by torches hanging on the walls, and he coughs several times as they string him up.

The beating itself is nothing exceptional. He’s had worse in his time. But then they leave him suspended from the ceiling. His shoulders grow more and more painful, and then burn, and then go numb; it gets harder to draw a full breath. Black spots grow in front of his eyes.

Just as consciousness is starting to fade someone rushes into the room, hurrying to let him down. He hasn’t a hope of keeping his feet, ending up sprawled on the ground. His rescuer leans over him, feeding him sips of water, a little at a time.

He’s vaguely aware of being helped back to his cell, wiped over with a damp rag and fed some kind of broth. By the end of it, he’s aware enough to look at his rescuer. Another guard, young looking, younger than Aramis himself.

“Pierre,” the boy introduces himself.

“Aramis.”

“Yes, I know. We all know.” He glances around to make sure they’re alone. “I can leave you a candle, monsieur, but if you hear them coming you must hide it. We’ll both be punished if it’s found.”

“Why?”

“Because the orders are to keep you in the dark.”

“No, I mean - why help me?”

He shrugs. “I don’t think I’m really cute out to be a guard. Make sure to hide it.” He drips some wax on the flagstones and sets the candle in it, leaving a waterskin behind when he locks the door.

Aramis would have liked to save the candle, but he has no way of relighting it. He lies on the floor to watch it burn down, catching the wax as it falls to make sure it won’t mark the floor. He buries it under the mouldiest part of the hay pile.

The candle gutters out. He cleans it up as best he can and retreats to his corner again.

The next time he’s whipped, and then tied down on his back. After that it’s the rack. After that, more whipping, and the more tortures, starting to blend into each other. Pierre isn’t always there, but he comes whenever he can, bringing water and food, helping to clean Aramis up. He can’t always release him, either, but he does his best to make him more comfortable.

“Maybe you should tell them,” Pierre suggests, helping Aramis to drink after one session. The heat in the torture chamber always wears him down and leaves him ragged.

“Tell them what?”

“Who ordered the Duke’s assassination.”

Aramis shakes his head. “We were on a training mission. I know nothing about any assassination.”

“And Cluzet?”

“I still don’t know who that is.”

Pierre _hmms_ softly, gently wiping around the various scars and bruises on his back. “I see.”

“On my honour,” Aramis says, strangely unsettled at the thought that Pierre doesn’t believe him. “If others in the troop had other orders, I don’t know about them. As far as I know, we were training.”

“All right,” Pierre agrees. “Just stick to that, then. Eventually they’ll have to believe you. Do you want a candle tonight?”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t always take the candles, but on the bad nights they keep away the voices that whisper whenever he tries to sleep.

He’s developed a habit of cleaning up the wax just before the candle goes out, blowing it out and hiding the stub. It makes it easier to clean, but there’s more of the candle left.

He regrets it the day the guards burst in, tossing hay in all directions until they find the heap of wax. Pierre is dragged in and flung to his knees; he has a black eye. He glances briefly at Aramis before looking away, watching the head guard, Richard.

“One of my own guards, helping a prisoner,” Richard says in disgust. “How dare you, Pierre? I trained you! I vouched for you! Well, I guess it’s time you learned about life on the other side of the bars!”

“I -”

“He didn’t help me,” Aramis says over him.

“What?” Richard demands.

“He didn’t help me. I stole the candles when your men weren’t looking.”

Richard snorts. “And lit it in here?”

Aramis summons up his best carefree grin. It’s much harder than it used to be. “I am a Musketeer. Do you think I can’t make a spark when I want to?”

It earns him another suspension, his most hated torture, but Pierre assures him in a hurried visit that he’s not under suspicion any more. “I won’t be able to come back for a while, though,” he says apologetically. “If they see us together…”

Aramis bites his lip, fighting the impulse to plead with Pierre to stay.

Pierre smiles faintly, touching his cheek lightly. Aramis pushes into the touch. It’s the only thing in so long that’s touched him without bringing pain.

Pierre looks around suddenly, pulls away and hurries out of the room. A moment later Richard strolls in with another couple of guards. One of them’s carrying a basket. Richard reaches into it with a theatrical flourish, pulling out a candle. “Stealing our candles, hmm? Well, we felt bad we hadn’t remembered to give you any, so we thought we’d fix that now.” He lights the candle, rolling it gently in his hand while the wax melts. “Aren’t you glad?” he murmurs, holding it over Aramis’ chest.

Aramis is watching it carefully, and the sudden splash of heat on his back takes him by surprise. He screams. He’s long since given up on keeping quiet.

Much, much later, Pierre sits in the cell, peeling off wax as carefully as he can. Richard has helpfully whipped some of it off, but there are still lines and spots here and there. Aramis has his face buried in one arm, whimpering and twitching as Pierre works. He’s never been more sorry that he can’t use his Ability on himself.

“I’ll have to leave some,“ Pierre says apologetically. “Most of this you could reach yourself, with a bit of effort, but there’s too much you can’t.”

“I know,” Aramis agrees, shuddering as Pierre brushes a hand over his shoulder blade to clear away the last bits of wax. “You should...don’t get in trouble.”

“There’s only one guard at nights, and he’s drunk at the moment.”

“The Duke lets his guards drink?”

“No. But sometimes their drinks end up spiked.” His hand is resting flat on Aramis’ bare back. Aramis twitches a little. Pierre’s black eye is dragging at his system, demanding attention and energy he doesn’t have to spare.

“Can I have my shirt?” he mumbles. “If you’re finished?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, you must be cold.” He stays where he is for a moment longer before getting up to find Aramis’ shirt.

Aramis shivers at the loss of his touch.

“I can’t risk leaving another candle,” Pierre says apologetically.

“I’m not sure I could stomach seeing it burn,” Aramis admits quietly.

“No. I suppose not. I’ll come back when I can, but I don’t know when that will be. They’re watching me closely now.”

“Yes, I know,” Aramis agrees. “Go carefully.”

“Try and hold on,” Pierre tells him. “Eventually they will come to believe you.”

He slips out before Aramis can answer, leaving him alone in the darkness. Having had the candles, the dark feels so much worse now, pressing against him until he can barely breathe under the weight, barely keep himself from screaming out just to hear the sound.

Without the candle, it’s difficult to judge time, and he stopped feeling hungry a long time ago, but he thinks it’s been a long time, maybe days, when the door opens again. The light blinds him this time; tears are still streaming from his eyes when they drag him out and tie him down over a bench.

Ah. He’d wondered when this was coming. It’s a standard way to try and demoralise male enemies. He’s surprised it took them this long, really.

He knows enough to try and relax rather than tense, but it’s still far more painful than he’s expecting. He lets the derogatory language roll over him without impacting, the taunts and curses. He can’t ignore the pain, though, and when they’re done they leave him there so they can use him again when they’re ready.

He thinks it’s been more than a day when they finally untie him, and by that point the immobility is hurting almost as much as - as other things are. He limps back to his cell and curls up on the floor. The hay is long gone, so that he can’t hide anything any more.

It’s another long, dark wait before they come back for him, but at least it gives him time to heal a little, and Pierre has been able to sneak in to see him a couple of times. When they come back this time they take him out to the main room and then carefully strap a tight helmet around his head, blocking his eyes, his ears, his mouth. He can’t move, tied immobile and spread out; he can’t hear or see, has no idea who’s there or what’s happening. He’s left alone for long periods - or, at least, no one touches him for long periods - and then there’ll be some kind of pain without warning, a whip, a fist, a shallow slice from a blade. Someone’s using a brine soaked birch rod, and that one makes Aramis beg for mercy, the sound garbled through the helmet. Even when no one’s touching him, he can’t help twitching, trying to avoid imagined strikes.

When they take him back to his cell they leave the helmet on. He scrabbles frantically at it, trying to take it off, but without his sight he can’t figure out the web of straps and buckles and he’s forced to leave it alone, huddled in the silent dark.

* * *

“Only eighteen bodies,” Porthos says. His voice is rough and flat. “Aramis and Marsac....”

Treville nods his head. He already knows--already Saw Marsac abandoning Aramis, Saw the men returning and hauling Aramis away. He couldn’t get reinforcements to Savoy any quicker than he had. “They’re gone,” he hears himself say. Eighteen men dead is a hard blow to the fledgling regiment. He can’t spare any resources to go looking for either of his missing men.

“Captain--”

“No,” he says, cutting Porthos’ protests off sharply. “See that the bodies are moved to the wagons. There’s nothing more for us here.”

For a moment, Treville wonders if Porthos is going to protest, but the younger man finally nods and turns back to the grim task of carrying fallen comrades from the cold clearing.

Guilt clings tightly to Treville, but there will be no comfort for him, no release from the agony of knowing these men died because of an order he gave, a mission he knew was to be a failure from the start. It didn’t matter that they weren’t supposed to die, nor that he had ordered men to their deaths before. This felt pointless, though he knew it wasn’t; but he couldn’t share that with his grieving men. 

And that extra layer of guilt, buried deep, because he had chosen not to send Porthos on this mission, had saved the boy’s life in a way he hadn’t been able to do years before. 

The king mourns for several days, and then promptly carries on with his life. Treville can’t hold it against him; he’s young, and these weren’t his men, not truly. He, at least, had made an effort. Unlike that bastard Richelieu, who spent the entire time Treville was making his report trying and failing to hide a smirk. 

Treville had added one more lie to the pile, claiming twenty dead Musketeers. Marsac likely wouldn’t come back, and Aramis... Treville had not allowed himself to dwell on Aramis, relying far too heavily on drink to keep the images at bay. If he didn’t have a regiment to run, he would allow the images to wash over him as punishment and penance.

But he needs to recruit new men, and with the special requirements of the Musketeers, he’s left with little time and fewer options. So when the Comte de la Fere comes stumbling into the garrison, clearly drunk, Treville needs to at least hear him out.

“My brother spoke highly of you,” de la Fere says. Treville doesn’t miss the past tense. “He always said...”

Treville holds up a hand. “I remember your brother well. Thomas was a good soldier. But this regiment is not--”

“I don’t die,” de la Fere says, cutting Treville off. He’s grinning, but it’s a tired and ragged thing with self loathing Treville is far too familiar with. “Or at least, I don’t stay dead.”

Treville leans back in his chair, folding his arms. Most men don’t meet the requirement this quickly. “Oh? That’s a dangerous thing to bring up.”

There’s no sign of emotion left on de la Fere’s face any more. “I’ve heard the news of what happened recently. And Thomas...” He struggles here, but still remains blank. “He told me, if ever there was a man to trust with an Ability, it was you.” The statement makes Treville feel old. He wants to tell this clearly broken man that the Musketeers aren’t worth it, that Treville is the least trustworthy man around. But de la Fere continues before Treville can speak. “I can’t die, no matter how much I might like to. At least let me do something useful with myself.”

He isn’t quite pleading, but there’s desperation there. “And what of your duties as comte?”

De la Fere shakes his head. “No more. All that is left is Olivier d’Athos. The comte de la Fere died with his brother and his wife.”

It isn’t that simple, but Treville is desperate, so he nods. “Alright. Welcome to the regiment, Athos.”

And then, two months after the “incident” in Savoy, Porthos barges into Treville’s office with barely a knock.

“He’s alive,” Porthos says, without preamble.

“Who?” Treville asks, truly confused by this sudden outburst.

“ _Aramis_. He’s alive an’ they’ve got him in Savoy!”

He lets himself frown. “Where did you hear this?”

Porthos shifts minutely, stance becoming defensive and expression closing down. “I overheard it.”

The sigh escapes without Treville intending it to. “Overheard it while going about normal duties, or...?” He lets the question hang in the air.

“I may have been using some of my... unique Court talents,” Porthos admits, but whatever guilt he feels at the admission is gone a moment later. “The cardinal knows an’ he hasn’t done anything.”

“What is the cardinal meant to do, Porthos?” It’s a question Treville has asked himself a hundred times. He knew Aramis was still alive, though he wished the man had been granted the peace of death already. But there was little he could do to change things.

“Send someone! Negotiate with the Duke. They can’t keep him like that, it’s against the treaty they have with Paris,” Porthos argues.

“And what do you think the Duke will say in response? ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry, here’s your man back’? There were Musketeers on his doorstep, and if one of them came stumbling into his country, it’s within his right to detain him.” 

“Stumbling! We both know our men were attacked by the Duke’s men an’ Aramis was dragged off. Even the cardinal knows that.” 

“We don’t know that,” Treville says, sharper than he intended. But he needs for Porthos to understand this. “All we know is that our men were surprised in their sleep and slaughtered. There were no witnesses.”

Porthos deflates, sinking into a chair. “He’s alive, Captain, and they’re torturing him. Isn’t there _anything_ we can do?”

The vision gets the better of Treville before he can answer Porthos. He doesn’t understand what he’s seeing, at first--or not seeing. Everything is black, until a door opens and light spills into a cell. There’s a figure curled up on the stone ground, some sort of metal implement shrouding his entire head. He flails when the guard touches him, trying to get away without knowing where to go.

Treville doesn’t need to see his face to know this is Aramis. The light is poor, but he’s down to nothing more than trousers and the helmet, and marks are as evident as ribs. Aramis was innocent in this entire affair, and it breaks Treville’s heart to see him like this, to know that this is his fault. 

He sighs heavily while shaking his head. “I have a mission for you and Athos.”

* * *

Athos is a piss poor travelling companion. Porthos makes a mental note to ask Treville not to put them together in future. At least he’s not keeping up the Comte act all the time, only when they stop at inns and taverns along the way. He knows a surprising amount about Italy, more than enough to keep up their cover. Porthos almost gives it all away the first time Athos answers someone’s question in fluent - or fluent sounding, Porthos has no idea how accurate it actually is - Italian. Luckily, no one pays any more attention to servants in Savoy than they do in France. His surprise goes unnoticed.

Their route takes them within a handful of miles of the Duke’s palace. Porthos is surprised when Athos turns towards the palace instead of continuing past it. “Where’re we going?”

“It’s a grave insult for a noble to pass by without presenting himself,” Athos says over his shoulder. “And this way we’ll get in.”

“An’ your name’ll be linked to Aramis’ escape.”

“No, it won’t, because I’ll still be in the palace when his escape is discovered.”

“You think I can get him back to France on my own?”

Athos looks back at him again. “I think it’s our best chance. Do you have another name I can use? The less chances they have to link us to the Musketeers, the better.”

“Some of us’ve only got one name,” Porthos grumbles. “Charon, you can call me Charon.”

Athos eyes him but doesn’t ask. It’s surprisingly tactful.

Porthos has spent some time on guard in the Court, so he has a general idea how to act as an attendant. Athos dismisses him after a while, loudly, and he wanders aimlessly around the corridors. He finds the guards’ garrison, gets himself invited to a card game, and within two hours he knows everything he needs to.

He lets them keep their money. It hurts to do it, but he doesn’t need them developing any grudges.

Athos - Comte de la Fere, he reminds himself, because walls have ears especially here - has been housed not far from the royal apartments. Porthos finds his way there and ‘assists’ him in getting ready for the evening meal, chattering idly all the time. Comte de la Fere hasn’t had much time to absorb the Musketeers codes, but he gets enough information to understand that Porthos knows where and when to go, and the Comte should stay at the evening meal or in company for as long as possible.

They part ways with only a nod and a bow, because they can’t risk anything else. Porthos carefully checks his weapons, takes half the money from Athos’ purse, and bundles up whatever he thinks might be useful. Then he unpacks it and leaves half the things behind, because he can’t lift it. Then he packs it again because it’s too early to make any attempt yet.

Finally, finally it’s late enough. He hefts the bundle, makes sure nothing will rattle or clink, and slips into the Fade. He heads downstairs, to the dark staircase leading to the palace’s cellars. He knows roughly where to go, and he’s confident he’ll be able to find it when he gets close enough. Cells and torture rooms have a certain smell that you never forget.

Aramis’ is the only locked cell. He has to hunt around a bit for the keys, but the guard on watch obligingly hands them over when Porthos tugs at them. He slips inside to find another guard bent over Aramis’ form. He hasn’t looked up, of course.

Porthos slams him into the wall, pinning him there before letting the Fade fall. The guard gasps, struggling for a second before going limp, clutching at his arm to keep from choking himself.

“Had to come and get your fun, huh?” Porthos hisses, low and deadly. “Didn’t get enough earlier?”

“Helping…” the guard chokes out.

“Sure, yeah. I bet all your mates would say the same.” He lets him slide down to stand, shoving him into a corner. “On your knees and don’t move.” The guard immediately goes to his knees and Porthos turns his attention to Aramis.

He’s half naked, curled into a shivering ball, covered in bruises and cuts and filth. Some kind of metal helmet is fastened around his head; Porthos studies it for half a second before looking at the guard. “Key for this.”

“The Duke has it.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Porthos warns him.

“I’m not! He wanted him always to wear it! There’s one copy and he has it, if he’s not destroyed it.”

Porthos grimaces. He can pick the locks, but it’ll take concentration and attention and he can’t risk that. Glancing around the room, he gestures to a manacle hanging from the wall. “Lock yourself in. And if you make any noise, you’re dead, got it?”

“Got it,” the guard agrees, moving slowly to the manacle and locking it around his wrist. Porthos goes briefly to check the lock and then returns to Aramis. He can’t communicate with him, not really, but he traces out a fleur de lis on his right shoulder. Aramis shudders, once, all over, and then relaxes in his grip. Porthos pulls out his lock picks and gets to work.

It takes far longer than he likes - whoever built this helmet went far overboard on the locks - but eventually he has them all loosened. He pressed his lips against the metal right by Aramis’ ear. “Close your eyes,” he warns, and waits for the answering nod before lifting it away.

Aramis looks awful, grey and sweating, eyes squeezed tightly closed. The helmet has rubbed him raw in spots along his collarbone and shoulders. Porthos rubs his arm gently, shifting to block as much light as possible from him.

It takes him four tries to manage “P -”

“Shhh,” Porthos says softly, aware of the guard listening. “It’s all right. Sit quiet a minute, and then we’ll go, ok?”

He jerks a little at the voice, squinting one eye open. “Oh,” he breathes, and the wonder in it almost kills Porthos. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yeah. It’s me.” He forces a smile. Turning to the pack, he digs out a shirt and cloak. “Can you put these on?”

Aramis reaches for the shirt. He gets one arm into it, but then he can’t get it around his shoulders to the other. Porthos helps carefully, alarmed at the passive way Aramis lets him do it.

He leaves him settling the cloak and goes to study the guard. “I’m going to need to knock you out.”

“Probably best,” the guard agrees. Porthos raises an eyebrow, and he shrugs. “I can’t stop you, and they’ll think I helped you if you don’t. Can you lengthen the chain so I don’t dislocate my shoulder, though? I don’t expect you to unchain me.”

“He’s coming.”

Porthos frowns, looking back at Aramis. “What?”

“He’s coming,” Aramis repeats. “He helped me.”

“Did he,” Porthos says evenly, turning to look at the guard. He holds Porthos’ gaze for only seconds before looking down.

“He can’t come,” Porthos says, going back to Aramis. “You know I can’t get three of us out, and we can’t risk getting caught.”

“He _helped_ me, Porthos, he took care of me…”

“Good,” Porthos soothed him. “Then I won’t knock him out, ok? We’ll just lock him in here.”

“No, he already got in trouble for helping me, if they think he did it again…”

“Ok,” Porthos says with a sigh. “I’ll untie him, and I’ll leave the door unlocked, he can leave when we’re gone.” The glare he directs at the guard tells a completely different story.

Aramis gives in. “All right.”

“Good man. Up you get, then, let’s get you standing before we do anything else.”

Aramis wobbles terrifyingly, but he stays on his feet when Porthos lets go. Porthos waits a moment to make sure before stepping away and going back to the guard. “ ‘Helped’ him, did you?”

“I had my orders,” the guard murmurs.

“Mmm hmm. Smile at him.”

The guard obeys. “Go well, Aramis.”

“Be careful, Pierre.”

Porthos turns, already sliding into the Fade as he reaches for Aramis’ arm, making sure to keep at least two layers between them. “Sorry,” he murmurs, “I know you don’t like this.”

“My Ability’s not really working,” Aramis says, keeping up as best he can. “Not enough energy to spare, I suppose.”

“We’ll take care of that. Get some flesh back on your bones.” He keeps talking quietly as he leads Aramis through corridors and up stairs and along passages. Aramis is flagging, badly, but he keeps up as best he can as Porthos slips them out through the main gate and into the surrounding forest. He doesn’t like bringing Aramis here, but it’s the best chance they have to hide out for a little. He wants to check Aramis’ injuries and get some food into him, let him rest for a while. They’re not scheduled to meet Athos for another two days. They have a little time.

He glances at Aramis, stumbling along with his head down. They have time. It’ll be fine.

* * *

Athos stays for another day. The duke went off on some mysterious task the night before and hasn’t shown up since then, but no one speaks of a missing prisoner, and no one accuses Athos of anything. He sends his regrets at being unable to bid farewell to the duke in person, and sets off.

He has to take a circuitous route back to the meeting point he had established with Porthos on their way to Savoy. If anyone notices he leaves without a valet, they don’t comment. Athos considers for the better part of his morning’s journey just continuing on towards Italy, leaving France behind completely.

It was cruel of the captain to use his own words against him like this, to ask Athos to rescue a stranger by being the man he no longer wished to be. Maybe now, he could put all that to rest, and Thomas would be willing to accept this act of penance.

The sun is nearly setting when he reaches the old farm house. Smoke is curling from the chimney, though Athos knows the building was abandoned only a week ago. He leaves the horses inside the barn, then heads to the door. He knocks three times, pauses, then knocks twice more. 

“Was starting to think you weren’t going to turn up,” Porthos says when he opens the door. Athos’ only response is to hand him the saddle bag full of food, keeping the wine for himself. The man who is presumably Aramis is sitting near the fire, eyes wide, pistol gripped tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

“If they suspected us, they made no indication,” Athos says, uncorking the bottle with his teeth. “And they would be stupid to risk coming this far into France.”

“You got the horses?” Porthos asks, then shrugs as Athos fixes him with a dark glare. “Just checkin’. Sooner we can get back to Paris, the better.”

Athos focuses on his drink while Porthos fusses over Aramis. He ignores the way the younger man shies away from touch, the way he crumbles his bread into tiny bits instead of eating it. Porthos keeps up a steady patter of conversation. As far as Athos can tell, it’s meaningless except as noise.

He finishes the bottle as quickly as he can, fighting his body’s desire to heal him so that he can pass out into blissful darkness. It doesn’t last long; thrashing and voices wake him, and he sits up to see Porthos struggling with Aramis.

The sound of a gun firing is loud and sharp, and it takes Athos another moment to realise what’s happened. He’s not entirely sober yet, so the wine soaks up some of the pain as blood starts dripping from his chest.

Porthos and Aramis both turn to stare at him, eyes wide. Aramis starts scrambling towards him, but Porthos grabs him around the waist. “No, Aramis, it’ll kill you!”

“He’s injured, Porthos, I can’t--”

Athos doesn’t understand what’s going on, other than the fact that he’s just been shot. He’s never been shot before, though he considered trying it after... He shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he manages to say, though talking hurts almost as much as breathing is starting to.

“Let me go!” Aramis wails, and he’s back to being as hysterical as he was before firing the gun. “I can Heal him, let me--I have to--”

Ah. Athos shakes his head and tries to speak again, to reassure them that he’ll be fine, but all that comes out is frothy, pink blood. “It’s too late,” he hears Porthos say, stricken. The last thing he hears as blackness takes him is uncontrollable sobbing.

* * *

Athos’ death is like a thread snapping. Aramis falls backwards as the tension vanishes, scrabbling back along the floor. Porthos kicks a chair out of his way, crouching without following him. “ ‘Mis…”

“I killed him,” he whispers.

“You weren’t in your right mind. It’s not your fault.”

“I killed him! I held the gun, I pulled the trigger, and he’s dead! Dead!” He pounds at his own head for a moment.

Porthos neatly slides a hand between his head and his hand, letting him pound away as much as he likes. “It’s not your fault, Aramis.”

He keeps saying it, keeps taking the blows and preventing Aramis from hurting himself. Aramis doesn’t have the energy to keep it up for very long; after a while he’s curled on his side in front of the fire again. It’s the only light in the house, because he’d flinched so badly when Porthos tried to light the candles. At least it’s a pleasant, comforting warmth, rather than the stifling heat of the torture chamber.

He dozes, restless, Athos’ face visible every time he closes his eyes. Porthos sits nearby, talking him quietly back to sleep each time he wakes, careful not to touch him unless he’s awake. After a while Aramis rolls to face him and grips his hand. Porthos is healthy and the rush of a system making no demands on him helps him stay balanced.

He knows Porthos’ energy. He knows Pierre’s. He shouldn’t really get them confused. But surfacing from sleep, it’s difficult to tell them apart, and more than once he thanks Pierre for looking after him. It’s the silence each time that reminds him - Pierre always answered - and he wakes properly to apologise to Porthos. Porthos promises each time that he doesn’t care, but he’s lying. Aramis can still read him well enough for that.

The sun is starting to rise when Athos suddenly coughs.

Aramis scrambles up, tangling himself in his blanket. Porthos hesitates, not sure who to check on first; Aramis waves him off, ripping at the blanket, trying to hide the tremble in his hands. He’d felt that surge of life from all the way across the room. What the hell is going on?

Porthos and Athos talk quietly for a minute or two - Aramis recognises the cadence of a Musketeer call and response at one point - before Porthos comes back to crouch in front of him. Athos is sitting, back against a wall, watching them.

“Ey…” Porthos gently turns his face so he can’t see Athos any more. “It’s all right. This is his Ability.”

“Resurrection?” Aramis crosses himself automatically.

“Healing. He says he’s only died once before, but anything else Heals when he sleeps.”

“Healing,” Aramis repeats, tasting the word as though he’s never said it before.

“Yeah. He heard you, before he - so he knows what you can do, too. He says he’ll leave if he’s upsetting you.”

Aramis shakes his head absently, gesturing Porthos to help him up. He frowns but obeys, helping him cross the floor to kneel beside Athos. Aramis studies him carefully before laying one hand against his bare arm; Athos twitches but allows the touch.

Nothing. Perfectly healthy. Aramis pushes, seeking out the centre of Athos’ chest where there should be some trace, but there’s nothing.

...there’s nothing. No signs of age, no signs of wear. If he’d touched him without seeing him first, he’d think the body belonged to a new born babe.

“No death,” he murmurs, barely aware of it. He feels giddy on the realisation.

Porthos carefully unpeels his fingers, a fold of cloth insulating him. He and Athos talk briefly before Porthos tries to lead him away again.

Aramis resists, pressing against Athos, not seeking that connection again but just looking for the touch. “I’m glad I didn’t kill you,” he whispers, listening to the strong, steady heartbeat beneath his ear.

If Athos answers, he doesn’t hear it, already asleep.

* * *

Porthos wouldn’t say that he was jealous; he and Aramis have been friends for nearly two years now, and in the last three days, Porthos has barely been allowed to touch him. But there he is, using a man he hadn’t even shared a conversation with as a pillow. For what it’s worth, Athos looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“I can try to move him off you,” Porthos offers.

Athos is quick to shake his head. “He needs the rest, I suspect. After the shock I gave him...”

Porthos doesn’t understand this man. “He’s been through quite a lot recently.”

Something crosses Athos’ face, but Porthos can’t name it. “I admit I did not give the captain’s words much thought during our trip.” Porthos can’t help the snort. Athos had crawled into a bottle whenever he could. “I did not expect this level of...”

“He was left for dead among eighteen other Musketeers,” Porthos says flatly, watching the way Athos flinches, just a little. “I’m sure he tried to heal at least one of ‘em. Not really sure what happened after that, but by the time the rest of us showed up, he was gone.”

“How did you know he didn’t just run off?”

It’s a reasonable question, but it makes Porthos’ blood boil. “Because Aramis ain’t like that. He’d’ve died tryin’ to heal every last one of ‘em, enemies and all, before he ran off. S’not just his Ability makes him like that, either,” he adds, softening his tone. “Way they messed him up, we’ll be lucky he can still use it. Needs compassion, that sort of thing.”

Athos’ only response to that is a noncommittal hum. “He’s likely to be changed.”

“I know,” Porthos snaps. He hadn’t rested while Athos was dead and Aramis dozed fitfully, and the strain of helping Aramis escape is starting to wear on him. “Doesn’t matter. He’s still my friend. My brother.”

Athos makes another noise. “We should all rest for another hour or two, then we can get on the road.” He phrases it as a statement, but it comes out sounding like one of his fake comte’s orders. 

If the man weren’t right, Porthos would argue with him. Instead, he nods and stokes the fire one last time before lying down, trying not to picture Aramis in that metal helmet again, Aramis flinching away from him, Aramis sobbing as Athos lay dead on the ground....

* * *

The trip to Paris is slow and tedious. Aramis alternates between craving contact and keeping as much distance as possible between himself and them. Athos tolerates it, knowing the journey is almost over and he can go back to his private rooms and drink uninterrupted.

Porthos talks. And talks, and talks, and talks. Aramis responds to direct questions and hums along as necessary, but it isn’t enough to hold up a conversation. He falls silent and his eyes go distant, his shoulders hunching forward as if in pain.

Athos reins in his horse, not nearly ready to stop for a rest. “If I recall correctly, there should be a small creek just off the trail here.” He dismounts, but doesn’t head for the water with the other two. 

Aside from shooting him, Aramis has been nothing but polite to Athos. He occasionally calls for someone named Pierre--perhaps one of the Musketeers who died--but Athos doesn’t ask. These men may be his fellow soldiers, but his only brother is dead.

“--Marsac?” he hears Aramis ask as he and Porthos return.

“Gone,” Porthos replies, gruff and maybe a bit angry. “Ran off an’ left you there for that bastard to grab.”

Athos watches as Aramis frowns, shaking his head. “No, he--that’s not what happened, Porthos. He tried to heal me. Did heal me, mostly.”

“An’ then left you.”

Aramis takes a step back from Porthos, though he must know Porthos wouldn’t hurt him. “He didn’t... he couldn’t know.”

“Unless he was the one who betrayed you,” Porthos says darkly. “Why else would he be the only one to walk outta that mess untouched?”

“No,” Aramis says, loud enough for his voice to echo. “Marsac _saved_ my life, and he--you can’t just write him off like you did Pierre!”

Porthos frowns. “Aramis, I -”

Aramis flinches back like he expects Porthos to hit him; Porthos stares with wide eyes. Athos isn’t sure what the hell is going on, but is fairly certain now isn’t the time to ask. “If you gentlemen are refreshed, perhaps we should be on our way,” he suggests, the first thing coming to mind to break the tension.

Both men look at him in surprise, as if they had forgotten him. Aramis still looks like a frightened animal, but he nods and mounts quickly. Porthos scowls as he mounts, but doesn’t comment, riding out to take the lead.

* * *

Aramis blindly follows Porthos’ lead, hunched over his horse’s neck. That was stupid, shouting like that, what was he _thinking?_ Now he’s going to - no, no, this is Porthos, Porthos won’t hurt him, Porthos is his friend.

But the other one, Athos, Aramis doesn’t know him at all. Porthos says he’s new, taken on in a hurry to replace some of the Savoy dead, but he’s not wearing Musketeer insignia, he doesn’t have anything that identifies him. Maybe he’s not, maybe he’s an imposter, maybe something’s going on…

Porthos catches at his reins and Aramis startles so badly he almost falls off.

“Easy,” Porthos says gently. “We’re stopping for the night. You all right?”

Aramis nods quickly, ducking his head. “I was thinking,” he murmurs.

Porthos chuckles lightly. “When are you not? C’mon. Need a hand down?”

“No. Thank you.”

He gets himself down, and across to where Athos is laying a fire. Porthos passes him some dried meat and the paring knife. “C’n you cut that up? It’s stew tonight, I’m afraid, we’ll have to stop somewhere tomorrow for more supplies.”

Aramis obediently cuts up the meat, and the potatoes Porthos gives him after that, and the one sad looking onion Athos produces from the bottom of his saddle bag. And, when no one’s looking, he slides the knife into the back of his trousers. It’s not much, but it makes him feel safer.

Athos and Porthos share out the watch without bothering to ask him if he wants to take one. Aramis stares at the fire until Athos starts snoring; then he looks over at Porthos. “Sorry.”

Porthos shrugs, but his shoulders are tense. “I wasn’t there.”

“No,” Aramis agrees, struggling to keep the accusation out of it. “No, you weren’t. You weren’t there.”

* * *

Athos doesn’t sleep like a soldier, which means it takes more than a quiet hiss of his name for Porthos to wake him for his watch. Once Porthos is sure Athos is awake, he checks on Aramis before settling into his own bedroll.

Athos waits barely moments before clearing his throat. “Marsac and Pierre.”

Porthos sighs. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. At least he’s keeping his voice low enough that Aramis probably won’t wake. “What of ‘em?”

“Who are they? Musketeers?”

The question startles Porthos until he remembers just how new to the regiment Athos really is. “Marsac yeah, Pierre no. Pierre was one of the duke’s guards. Claimed to be helping Aramis.”

“Claimed?” Athos asks. “You don’t think he was?”

“I think he was sent in there to get somethin’ out of Aramis when he was less on guard, an’ I think Aramis was messed up enough not to realise it,” Porthos says. “An’ he still doesn’t realise it.”

“Ah. So he remained in Savoy. And Marsac, you think he betrayed the Musketeers?”

Porthos doesn’t answer immediately. He hadn’t known Marsac that well; they’d served on missions together here and there, but Marsac’s only close friend in the regiment had been Aramis. “I don’t know. He had a hard time fittin’ in with the rest of us. Not his fault, when his Ability wouldn’t let him get close to anyone. Can’t see much reason why he’d sell ‘em out to Savoy, but people do strange things sometimes.”

“I see.” Athos is silent for several moments, and Porthos begins to think the conversation is over. “And the knife?”

“What?” Porthos asks. He hadn’t realised Athos had been paying that much attention to Aramis.

“You saw him take it, and of the two of us, you’re the only one in danger from it.”

“Then let me worry about it,” Porthos says. Mostly, he hasn’t decided what he’s going to do about it yet. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep ‘fore Aramis wakes up with nightmares.”

* * *

Treville makes sure the yard is clear when he expects Porthos and Athos to return with Aramis. Aramis doesn’t need that kind of attention right now, and Treville would prefer to have the chance to speak to them in private before word spreads. So he stands on the balcony and waits until the small procession enters.

Aramis is staying surprisingly close to Athos, looking around as though puzzled. Treville waves them upstairs, backing into his office as they approach.

“Aramis,” he says. “It’s good to see you back.”

“Is it,” Aramis murmurs. Porthos glances sharply at him but doesn’t comment.

“Any problems?” Treville asks Athos.

“The rescue went smoothly.”

That’s not the same question at all, but Treville lets it pass. “If anyone asks, Aramis escaped on his own and made his way over the border, where you happened to find him. There can be no hint that you were sent to rescue him.”

“No, can’t have that,” Aramis says, still low and angry.

“Is there a problem here?” Treville asks.

“No -”

“How much did you know?” Aramis says over Porthos.

“Excuse me?”

“Aramis…”

“How much did you See, Captain? Did you know we would be cut down in our sleep? Did you send us there to _die_?” Aramis is flushed and angry and one hand is at the small of his back.

“Aramis,” Porthos murmurs. “Don’t do this. Come on.”

“Gentlemen,” Treville says, watching Aramis carefully, “if you’d step outside for a moment, please.”

“Captain,” Porthos says, startled.

“In case the ‘please’ confused you, that was actually an order, Porthos.” Athos is already gone; Porthos dallies a moment longer, but eventually goes. No doubt he’ll be pressed up against the door, trying to listen in.

Treville solves that problem by gesturing Aramis into the inner room. “Feel free to draw whatever weapon you’re holding, if it makes you feel better.” Aramis is thin and injured and trembling; Treville feels no fear at all, and less when he sees the weapon is a small paring knife. “I will tell you why I sent you to Savoy, and you will swear on your faith not to tell anyone else.”

Aramis hesitates for a long moment. “Did you See it, Captain?”

“Not until it was happening,” Treville tells him. “I know some few details of what has happened to you. If you find that you wish to talk about them, I will listen.” That’s little enough to offer as penance. “But no one will ever hear anything from me.”

Aramis glances around, finding a corner to cram himself into, knife still held in one hand. “Tell me why my brothers died.”

“Your oath.” He regrets demanding it, but if this gets out, his Musketeers died for nothing.

Aramis gives his oath, voice trembling. Treville locks his gaze somewhere over the man’s head. “Louis’ sister Christine spies for him against her husband. Her presence is vital for our war efforts in Northern Italy. The Duke’s Chancellor, Cluzet, discovered her and was about to expose her. Louis ordered Musketeers to the border to distract the Duke so that Cluzet could be kidnapped. He’s now safely locked away in the Chatelet and will never see the light of day again.”

Aramis is shaking his head. “But you couldn’t know that the Duke would come after us.”

Treville swallows. “News was leaked to the Duke that the Musketeers planned to assassinate him and set Louis on the throne instead.”

Aramis stares at nothing for a long moment. “We were sacrificed,” he says dully.

“Aramis…”

“No. It’s fine. Our lives belong to the King, of course.” He glances from Treville to the door. “I would like to go and rest, please.”

“Having Christine in place may save many thousands of lives.” He’s pleading, he knows it.

“I understand, Captain. May I go?”

“Aramis -”

“ _Please?_ ” It’s desperate.

Treville sighs, nodding. Aramis doesn’t move, though, and after a moment Treville realises what the problem is. He backs away to the far wall, out of reach of the door.

Aramis hurries out, knife still gripped tightly in one hand. Treville doesn’t watch him go.

* * *

It takes Aramis far longer than he likes to work the handle on Treville’s door; he’s nearly sobbing by the time he gets it open, hurrying out onto the balcony without looking. Porthos is there, saying something Aramis can’t hear over the noise in his head. When Porthos reaches for his arm, he reacts without thinking, slashing with the knife.

The blade’s short but the edge is sharp sharp, enough to cut him down the length of his arm. Porthos reels backwards, grasping at the wound, staring at him.

Aramis drops the blade, taking a horrified step backwards. He can feel the wound pulling at him, but he doesn’t dare get any closer. “Porthos…”

“S’ok.” Porthos is breathing heavily, and there’s blood dripping from his fingers. “Aramis, s’ok. S’nothing, ok? Go on to your room. I’ll get it taken care of.”

Aramis moves to obey, but he can’t ignore the drag. He drops to his knees beside Porthos, ignoring the jolt it sends through his body. “Can…”

“Can you?” Porthos asks warily. A couple of other Musketeers have appeared on the balcony; Treville shouts them back from his doorway, not approaching the pair.

Aramis shakes his head automatically - he doesn’t know if he can - but he reaches for Porthos’ arm anyway. The cut is deep, it’s crossed a nerve; Porthos will lose some movement if Aramis can’t do something about it. He pushes at it.

Nothing. He can’t find the edges, can’t find anywhere to start. He flails for a moment, struggling with what should be as natural as breathing.

“Aramis.” Something touches his face, his real face, and he pulls back into himself with a gasp. “Aramis,” Porthos repeats. “It’s ok. Don’t hurt yourself.”

That makes Aramis angry, and he seizes the feeling, gathering it up, holding it close. He remembers Porthos dismissing Marsac, and leaving Pierre behind; he remembers listening to Treville explain why they’d been betrayed, why the king they’d sworn service to had deliberately sent them to be slaughtered. He gathers as much anger as possible, using it to fuel himself.

This time, when he pushes, he finds the damaged nerve and works on that first. He can hear Porthos hiss out a breath - he doesn’t dare spare any energy to smooth the process as he usually does - but he ignores it, finishing with the nerve and starting to work on the skin and blood.

By the time he pulls away, there’s a pale white line and nothing else across Porthos’ arm. They stare at each other over the discarded knife.

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers.

“It’s all right…”

“It’s not. Oh, Porthos…” He leans forward, burying his face in Porthos’ neck, trembling.

Porthos wraps both arms around him without hesitation. “There you are,” he whispers. “Welcome home, Aramis.” And he sits there quietly until Aramis cries himself out.


End file.
